


silent night

by SavageNutella46



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Damian Wayne-centric, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, TRIGGER WARNING: Dami kinda depressed, and he gets it from jason, because that’s what Damian DESERVES, some brotherly love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:22:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28964592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SavageNutella46/pseuds/SavageNutella46
Summary: Damian neither talks nor snarks, never fills the silence with convoluted sneers where he used to, instead, painting over an uncomfortable silence in his part of the conversation. He feels their stares at these times, feels the confusion and unimaginable relief that comes from them.As if they are happy when he doesn't talk.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Damian Wayne
Comments: 39
Kudos: 243





	silent night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [m3owww](https://archiveofourown.org/users/m3owww/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Robin He Could Never Catch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26410846) by [IAmWhelmed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmWhelmed/pseuds/IAmWhelmed). 



> I’m gifting this to you, phi, because I thought of you when I was writing this :)) (youre also just amazing and deserve everything, let’s be real here)
> 
> (I also wanted to thank you for that conversation we had about these two brothers a month ago, holy shit you’re big brain.)
> 
> ALSO WARNING: Damian’s kinda depressed, so please, if you get triggered by that, please don’t read this.

It's almost familiar to him, the silence that sits and paints his mundane walls, the restless press of an unimaginable weight against his throat; it hurts to swallow, to feel the lump of unfamiliar disease in his throat shift and take place back where it started, and that's what he feels.

He feels as if the silence is a disease, spreading into his atresia and settling into the narrowest parts of his mind and throat.

Damian neither talks nor snarks, never fills the silence with convoluted sneers where he used to, instead painting over an uncomfortable silence in his part of the conversation. He feels their stares at these times, feels the confusion and unimaginable relief that comes from them.

As if they are _happy_ when he doesn't talk.

So, he does it less and less. What better a way to comfort your own family in their home than to contribute less than a sliver of what he used to? He senses their anticipation, the weird tilt of the end of their sentences where he used to interrupt, the furrow of their eyebrows that ruffles the lump in his throat further, pushing it deep, deep down, further into his own introverted mind.

Further, he falls into his own undeniable misery, almost like a free fall, with insults and questioning glares to slap against his face as he falls deeper, impossibly deeper into his own self worth, tearing it apart at the seams where he worked so hard to stitch them back together after his own death, his own battle scars already repeatedly wearing them down.

_And now his family_.

Patrol is almost over. There are just two, three minutes left until the full moon, dented and cracked to its own hell, will leave, and instead, a full, bright sun will cast its orange glow on Gotham, almost covering its pudge and smog with a faux vivid screen.

Robin sits on the edge of an unprecedented rooftop, unfamiliar and worthless to most residents of Gotham; but still, people live and rely on this lone apartment building. It is where they house their love and sentiment, unbothered by its own tarnishes and dirt.

Dangling his legs over the edge, he likes the feel of the weight of gravity tugging on his boots. Almost as if it beckons him to fall down and meet the ground with its own stories and share them with him.

A drop of almost silent footsteps to his left, shattering the quiet content he has grown to familiarize himself with. It's Batman, he knows, who has probably arrived to question him.

"Batbrat?" _Ah, so, not Batman_. The disappointment of being wrong almost sends him spiraling again, blocked by only the prickles sent up his spine reminding him that he isn't alone.

"Red Hood." Robin barely greets him, continuing to let the free fall of air greet his dangling boots and let them sway on their own accord.

Red Hood approaches him more closely, the scent of Gotham smog and street clinging to the man and wafting over to him, a familiar and welcome aroma. It reminds of him of where he's almost truly welcomed.

"You...alright?" Hood's voice modulator cannot mask the hesitance that conveys when he utters the words. An almost undertone of—

— _care? Concern?_ It's stranger to him, coming from the man who so often implicates a carefree tone into his low timbre.

"Fine, Hood." Robin almost hopes Hood doesn't catch the crack in his voice, being unused for so long, but he knows it's a lost cause. They're Bats, after all.

"Really? 'Cause you don't seem fine." Robin almost recoils when Red Hood settles down next to him, shifting to dangle his own pant-clad legs over the edge, the holsters on his hips scratching against the rough pavement of the rooftop.

"Fine." Maybe, if he keeps repeating it, Hood will drop it.

_(Just like everyone else.)_

Hood shifts onto his elbows beside him, and he feels the weight of the blanketed stare—covered by his obnoxiously red helmet—on the side of his masked face.

"How's art class?" Robin's lip twitches in annoyance as he fights so hard to not punch the body sitting so casually next to him. Can Todd not mind his own business?

"Nope." Only then does he realizes he said that out loud, the lump scratching up against his throat as aftermath.

"Daddy Bats treatin' ya good?" No. He never speaks to Damian anymore. Maybe a greeting or two in the morning or after patrol, but the man is tight-lipped otherwise. No congratulations or pats on the backs when he solves a case, just, silence. Cold, hard, silence that fills his lungs like water and freezes his toes down to the fraying nerves.

( _Robin stands awkwardly behind Batman, who is sitting at the Batcomputer, typing away on the latest case they just closed; Bruce knows he's there, but continuing to ignore him and neglect his duty as a father is so normal Damian doesn't even notice anymore._

_The second they left the Batmobile, Bruce had removed his cowl and headed straight to the Batcomputer, brushing past him without a sound._

_Robin walks away with his head hung low, an unusual hunch to his shoulders that had never been there before.)_

He doesn't answer, Hood already knows the answer anyway, so why would he inquire such a thing?

Hood sighs, "Kid..." And Damian can almost hear the apology in his voice, the soft crack in the middle of his nickname, and it makes him _burn._

Burn with embarrassment, with emotion. The thought of someone feeling anything other than hatred or annoyance with him, talking to him like they almost care. It burns all over, it departs and multiplies like a disease throughout his heart and head.

Has Todd felt this before? Has Todd felt the unimaginable disappointment and disdain for himself spread throughout his psyche, like it spreads through Damian?

Surely, he imagines so. Todd is the black sheep of the family, the reoccurring elephant in the room that sits and glares at Bruce like there's no tomorrow. Like the times Bruce whips out a batarang and almost slices through Todd's carotid, killing him. Just to show his disappointment for his resurrected son.

Surely, he's felt the same thing. Felt the same disappointment flow through him when Bruce glared at the guns in his holsters, how he’s been forced to switch to rubber bullets instead of real. Felt the same pain when his father did not avenge his death, and, instead, continues to ignore his sins and problems to fall deeper into his own self worth.

They are similar, in a way. Not the physical way, where they’ve both died and been restored by the Lazarus Pit, or the way they’ve both been trained assassins and shunned by their own kin, but mentally.

“If you ever need anything—“ Robin tenses his shoulders in anticipation. “I’m here.”

_Oh._

He’s here for _Damian._

Someone who his father chose to adopt, instead of being taken on as a burden, is here for him.

Robin deflates, hunching his shoulders horridly, an action Mother would sneer upon and strike him in the stomach for.

But Red Hood doesn’t seem to mind. Todd reaches a gloved hand over to him and rubs his shoulder. Something no one except Grayson has ever done.

The action has Robin choked up, a single tear forming at the edge of his right eye, barely concealed by the mask glued to his skin so thoroughly. It just feels so comforting, something he’s never felt before from such a closed-off individual. He feels special, he feels—

He feels _loved_. It spreads through him instead of the guilt of being a burden, instead of the silence that so openly chokes him and makes him swallow his tongue, it replaces the tension running through his body in favor of a thriving pulse that brings energy to his bones.

It’s something he’s longed for, and now he’s received it.

“Thank you.” He looks over at Jason—his brother—and smiles freely.

**Author's Note:**

> If you’re seeing this, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! It would also be very dear to me if you left a comment, as well. I love seeing feedback.


End file.
